


Three Knights Walk Into A Festival

by SuperLizard



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Bad Jokes, Bad Puns, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gay Parents, M/M, Swords & Sorcery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26358250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperLizard/pseuds/SuperLizard
Summary: Gawain and Lancelot do their best to raise Squirrel, but can't pass up an opportunity for dad-jokes and embarrassing him in front of his friends.Percival is already a knight but still feels like he has to prove himself, so he enters the first tournament after the declaration of peace.Of course, his parents will be there the whole way to cheer him on. And really, what could be worse than that!
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. A Long Shot

Chapter One: A Long Shot

Percival, already a Knight of Camelot, was pleased to be of age for the first of what promised to become a yearly event, the King’s Games. Knights, vagabonds, upstart peasants, particularly skilled individuals of multiple persuasions, and of course vendors for goods of every kind, gathered outside the walls of the castle and built what could be considered an entirely new town. For a fourteen-year-old, finally free of a life of war and hiding, the last years of peace and prosperity had seemed… well…

“THIS IS BORING,” Percival complained, throwing the book on the table. “Why do I have to know about who owns what piece of land? Owning land is ridiculous.”

“It’s part of stewardship,” Gawain explained patiently as he shoved the tome back toward him. “You don’t own the land, the land owns you.”

“I own the land, though,” Lancelot mused from the other side of their sitting room, sharpening one of his many, many knives.

“Not helping,” his husband reminded him gently. 

“You can’t even read,” Percival snarked.

“Rude,” Lancelot admonished him, not actually too upset about it.

Gawain dragged a hand across his face. “Look, we are going to come back to this, but it’s obvious you have other things on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he groused. “I want to fight about it. The tournament is coming up, I should be practicing.”

“You’re not old enough,” Gawain and Lancelot told him in unison.

Percival stood up on his chair. “I am a Knight of Camelot and I am fourteen years of age, I can do as I please.”

It was eerie how in-tune they were: both looked up at him with their eyebrows raised high, and then they turned to each other in that slow, almost startled manner; sharing a glance that was impossible to decipher. For a suffocating moment, he almost thought they would burst out laughing.

“Your son thinks he’s of age,” Lancelot said tonelessly, but his eyes told it all – there was a devilish gleam.

“He’s your son today,” Gawain grumped. “But I guess as long as he’s going to the tournament, we should support him from the stands.”

Percival’s eyes grew very wide with horror. “NO.”

Gawain climbed carefully onto his chair, then threw his arms wide in a grand gesture. “I am a Knight of Camelot and I am thirty-seven years of age, I can do as I please.”

“Father NO,” he begged, “Why are you so embarrassing?”

He shrugged, and grinned. “Because if I wasn’t so ridiculous, how would you know how perfect you are? Get out of here. Go practice for your games.”

Percival stomped down from the chair and ineffectually punched Gawain in the side on his way towards the door.

“Oof,” he complained.

“You’re impervious, you will live. Unfortunately for me!”

“Wear a cloak,” Lancelot told him, trying to sound bored. “Don’t take any sweets from strangers.”

“Pull up your stockings,” Gawain joined in. “Be back before they light the torches.”

“I HATE YOU,” Percival shouted, and slammed the door behind him.

\---

On the morning of the first games, Percival left early dressed in his most dashing tabard, in the quartered green and black of his family coat and with the double-headed eagle of the lands he would inherit. He definitely thought he looked better in royal violet and gold, but it would be some years before anyone let him make his own decisions. The weird eagle would be the first thing he would do away with.

There was nothing that could change the love he felt for them; they’d accepted him with open arms and taken care of him when no one else had. They were just and kind and everything you could ever wish for – but they were incredibly humorless. The worst part was that they fed off each other like leeches – they could share one look and burst out laughing and no one around would ever know what the aisles of Britain and all of Normandy they were laughing at. The worst part was that it didn’t matter if they were home, or in public – where normal people were just that, normal, they weren’t. 

It was beginning to damage his reputation with the other youth. Perhaps this tournament would be his opportunity to set that right, to establish himself as a formidable knight in his own power, not the scion of two absolute goons. He stuck with a crowd of people his own age, including the fair Marien, a magus in training he had met in court on a feast night and definitely the shapeliest young woman to pay him mind.

The tourney grounds were filled to the brim, crowded with Knights and squires and people from all walks of life. And yet, it was impossible to not see them. They stuck out like two sore thumbs, both clad in surcoats to match his and–no, no no nononononono.

The moment their eyes met, Gawain gave him a double thumbs-up and Percival felt his stomach drop; blood running cold in his veins. On his head perched his fearsome green stag helmet. From the points of its gaudy antlers hung green and black flags with “GO PERCIVAL” painted in gold paint. Lancelot sat next to him, utterly unphased by the show of support, eating a pretzel.

“Who are those old men?” Marien asked disdainfully.

“The ouroboros of embarrassment,” Percival groaned as he covered his eyes. “Don’t get too close to them. You might get pulled in. They’re like a maelstrom of dumb.”

“Ohhhhh, they’re your fathers!” she clapped her hands and he could practically hear how her smile stretched from ear to ear. “I would love to meet your family!”

Percival dragged a hand down his face, all while considering that it might just be easier not to have a girlfriend at all. Before he could string together a nifty excuse for Marien to not meet them, the horns blew to signal the audience to be seated, and the contestants to collect on the field. 

The first event would be archery; everyone was permitted to compete in this event, knight and commoner, human and fey alike. The only rule was: No Magic.

Percival took a place behind the contest line, where the organizer set them into groups of three, and explained the rules. Step up to the line. Plant your toe behind the line. Lift the bow from the stand. At the first whistle, draw and aim. At the second whistle, fire. Repeat this three times, then stand down and leave the field to await adjudication.

The first whistle was almost mistaken, because the less taciturn of Percival’s loving fathers whistled so loudly on his own that the entire event stopped so everyone could look at him.

“YES, PERCIVAL! THAT’S MY BOY!”

Percival sighed and turned beet red. “Why,” he whispered. “Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

Someone from the royal box came down into the stands and whispered something to Gawain, who waved him off. 

The tournament began again from the start. The first set of three approached the line, shot, shot, shot, and left. A long pause happened while the adjudicators studied the targets, then the arrows were cleared and the next set of three approached the line. This happened for a little over an hour before Percival’s turn, and he was certain by that time that the heat of the sun would have forced his fathers to abandon their dramatic cloak and ridiculous helmet. He snuck a peek at the stands, and wished he hadn’t. 

There they sat, still dramatically clad, seeming completely unphased by the weather. Lancelot was glowering at the pretzel vendor, who was explaining something nervously. Gawain spotted Percival. “YES, SQUIRREL! BEST ARCHER IN THE LAND! ON POINT, MY BOY!”

Percival sighed a looooong sigh and loosed his first shot, trying to ignore the carrying-on in the stands. He shot wide, and barely hit the target. “Damn it.”

The second shot, he drew back--

“KEEP IT LOOSE,” Gawain advised at the top of his lungs.

“DAMN IT,” Percival shouted as soon as he loosed the arrow. It went wide as well, and didn’t even hit the target.

The last shot, his one last opportunity for redemption in this event--

“WE’RE PROUD OF YOU!” Lancelot bellowed in his most terrifying voice.

Percival loosed the arrow having already given up. Ironically, it struck yellow inside the target, better than the other two had done. This time, the other two competitors missed the targets entirely, probably terrified by the screaming from the stands.

They filed off the line and stood while the adjudicators studied the targets, then delivered their scores. They were then permitted to leave the grounds and sit in the stands or prepare for the next event, as they pleased. 

Percival made a bee-line for the dressing area and kept his eyes straight forward, trying not to see his parents applauding thunderously in the stands. After shedding his tournament attire and getting something more comfortable, he joined his mates in the courtyard and they made their way to the pub to while away the rest of the afternoon.

Unfortunately, his inappropriately-attired fathers were already in the pub, dominating a long table along with Galehalt, Kaze, and Agravaine. A barmaid was just bringing around a tray full of mugs, and one cup of wine.

It’d been a funny thing in the beginning; a joke – give Lancelot a goblet of wine and he’d take the stick out of his bum, slouch his shoulders and loosen up a little. Percival couldn’t count how many times he’d darted to the wine cellar and back ever since their move to Camelot, but he’d slowly learnt that Lancelot unhinged was bad. He didn’t turn violent or spiteful or angry, but giggly. And chatty – suddenly, he almost became a people person; a pretty wicked thing given his history. 

Percival reached for the goblet in his hand. “You don’t need that.”

“I do,” Lancelot said, pulling the goblet back, “I’m thirsty after all those pretzels.”

Percival breathed in through his nose, shoulders puffing up as he pulled the goblet back once more. “You don’t need that,” he said again, words bearing edge.

Lancelot narrowed his eyes; face set in that blank, unreadable expression.

“Don’t speak to your father that way,” Gawain warned him. “He’s terrifying.”

“He’s old enough to make his own mistakes now,” Agravaine pointed out.

“Don’t you help,” Percival groaned.

Lancelot stood up slowly, still well taller than Percival. He loomed, and swayed a step closer, crowding into his space.

“You’ve done it now,” Gawain told him, resigned.

Faster than could be seen, Lancelot’s hands leapt forward and his fingertips dug into Percival’s armpits. He tickled him gleefully, knowing full well where the boy was most ticklish.

“HAHAHA NO STOP I HATE YOUUUUU,” Percival howled, slapping at his hands and backing away, but not fast enough. 

“We’re really proud of your archery skills,” he said conversationally.

“HAHAHA I WAS TERRIBLE HAHAA”

“I didn’t see a problem, maybe you could point it out to me. Draw an arrow to it.”

“I HATE YOU SO MUCH AAHAHAHA TRUCE TRUCE”

Lancelot stopped tickling him and looked at him fondly. “There now, that wasn’t so bad. You CAN laugh after all.”

“UGH.” Percival clenched his fists at his sides. “FINE. I don’t want to drink here anyway, I will go somewhere else!”

Lancelot threw an arm around him and pulled him inexorably back towards the table, grey cloak billowing behind them. “Why, are you frightened?”

He clenched his teeth now, too, considering. Would he sit and drink with his fathers and risk embarrassment in front of his friends, or definitely be embarrassed in front of his friends for being run out of a pub by his fathers and their ridiculous ways? 

Certain that he was headed for an early death, he put on his very best fake smile. “We’ll stay and drink with you. I want you to meet my friends ever. so. much.”

Lancelot clapped him on the shoulder. “Grand! We’ll pay.”

“You’d better,” Percival grumbled. He gestured to the crestfallen gaggle of teenagers who had witnessed the entire ordeal and were staring in wide-eyed terror from the doorway. “C’mon, my father has agreed to rounds on him.”

His friends shuffled awkwardly to the table and bumped into each other figuring out where to sit. Except for Marien, who was oblivious that anything was at all wrong. She set herself down at Percival’s right hand, like a proper lady, and tucked her skirts under her. Princess as can be. She extended her hand to Percival’s fathers, and Percival felt his blood run cold.

“I am Marien von Augsburg, and I am greatly pleased to make the acquaintance of such reputable knights.”

On Gawain’s other side, Lancelot coughed into his wine cup, clearly trying to cover a laugh. 

Gawain ignored his husband’s distress and stood just a little so he could squeeze the young lady’s hand and bow over it slightly. “We are pleased to meet such a well-mannered lady. Your presence brings a higher value of civilization to the table.”

She blushed and smiled, sitting back in place and resting a hand on Percival’s forearm, visibly laying a claim. Percival raised his eyes to the ceiling, praying the Hidden grant him a fast and merciful death to avoid whatever his fathers had in store.

“What brings you to Camelot, other than these rough games?” Gawain made polite conversation and seemed to be genuinely trying to make her feel welcome.

Merian was visibly pleased. “I study in the tower with the magii; my father sent me to learn under Merlin. My specialty is glamors and hexes.”

“How enchanting,” he couldn’t help but quip.

Percival kicked him under the table, but Merian didn’t seem to see a problem. “Ah wordplay! How fun. My English is not yet so good.”

“Nous parlons une variété d'autres langues,” Lancelot offered.

“Go deimhin, is teaghlach an-chultúrtha muid,” Gawain agreed. He gestured at the barmaid and pointed to their new guests. “Oh yes, we are going to have great fun this afternoon.”

“I oderunt vos tantum,” Percival politely agreed between gritted teeth.

Marien laughed girlishly. “Oh wunderbar. Ihr Ruf, Sir Lancelot, ist, dass Sie ungebildet sind und aufgrund Ihrer Fähigkeit mit einem Schwert durch die Gesellschaft gekommen sind, aber ich freue mich, dass Sie und Ihr Waffenbruder auch in Sprachen so gut sind. Wahrlich, die Ritter der Legende sind ein Geschenk an das Königreich England. Sag mir, welche Art von Kunst ist auf einer so abgelegenen Insel wie dieser beliebt? Was ich bisher gesehen habe, scheint so unkultiviert.”

Lancelot took a minute to translate all of that, but then looked offended. Which, on his soot-streaked face, was fucking terrifying.

Percival’s eyes grew very wide. He hadn’t understood what his date had said, but it was clear that it wasn’t being received well.

Gawain kicked Lancelot under the table even as he painted on a fake smile and bought some time with a polite, but very fake, laugh. “Haha, Percival, you could learn some things from this fair maid. Lancelot, why don’t you go see what the hold up is at the bar.”  
Lancelot stood up stiffly and glided away from the table, obviously in a strop.

“What did you say,” Percival asked her under his breath.

“She asked about the mode of art that’s in style at the moment,” Gawain filled him in.

“Oh shit,” he buried his face in his hands.

Gawain deflected as hard as he could. “Sir Kaze is knowledgeable about the many forms of art indigenous to the fey of this isle, aren’t you Sir Kaze?”

Kaze hissed at him over her mug of stout.

He kept trying, his courtly instincts driving him gamely forward into the embarrassment. “I was gifted some tapestries during my travels to the Ice Kingdoms, detailing the story of Mabriga the Tooth.” 

“Oh no,” Percival moaned into his hands.

“Ah tapestry. How interesting,” Merian said politely, her eyes glazing over slightly.

“Now, Mabriga was not a well-known warrior before his death,” Gawain settled into the story, finally on familiar territory again. “But in his battle with Sigurd-- not Sigurd the Protector, but another Sigurd, you understand-- he was roundly defeated and slain in combat.”

“Ach nein!” she gasped.

“No, please,” Percival begged.

“It turns out well, stay with me.” 

Kaze began to laugh from the other side of the table.

“So after his defeat, Sigurd severed Mabriga’s head from his body and tied it to his saddle as a trophy, to warn others of his skill. But Mabriga’s head was jostled by the motion of the horse and pierced Sigurd’s leg. Mabriga’s teeth were so rotten that they gave Sigurd blood poisoning, and he died in horrible agony.”

Kaze moved on to chortling. Lancelot returned with their tray of drinks just as Marien stood up and left the table, clearly upset. He looked at Gawain. “What did you do?”

Gawain, horrified at the response to what he had believed was a perfectly serviceable bar-room story, shrugged, bewildered.

The other teenagers awkwardly followed Marien out of the pub.

“Damn it, papa,” Percival complained. “I am never going to bed a woman if you keep telling that story.”

Gawain gestured helplessly at the rest of the knights. “What did I say?”

Agravaine thumped his mug on the table and gestured for Lancelot to bring the tray to his side of the table instead. “Hanged if I know.”

Kaze kept laughing.


	2. Taking a Stab At It

The second morning’s event was swordplay. This limited the number of contestants somewhat, as weapons and armor were indeed very expensive. Percival again left very early in the morning, hoping but not really believing that he could avoid the embarrassment of being seen in the same mortal plane as his parents. He hoped they would miss the morning bells and stay sleeping, or forget that there was a tournament, or be hung over. Just anything to keep them from--

\--nope, there they were. But unfortunately, they weren’t in the stands this time. They were there in shining armor, armed to the teeth, and ready to compete.

“Really?” he complained at them.

“Hear us out,” Lancelot offered as Gawain helped him adjust a shoulder tie to offer a little more range of motion. “We take out whomever we are assigned in the first round, and clear up the bracket for you. Then we fight each other to a draw and you proceed to the final round unopposed. Kaze and Gallahad have already agreed to sit this one out, but you may end up fighting Agravaine. We made a good show of getting him very drunk yesterday, so he shouldn’t be much a threat, just get the sun in his eyes.”

Percival stared at him.

“This is a good plan,” Gawain said supportively. “I like this plan very much. Your _reputably uneducated father_ came up with it.”

He sighed, and made eye contact to show he was genuine in his words. “I am very sorry that she said that. It was rude and completely uncalled for.”

“No, she’s right,” Lancelot replied lightly. “I am uneducated. But I’m still smarter than that vapid human garbage and so are you and I hope you see that someday and aim higher.” He jerked a little as Gawain pulled the straps unnecessarily hard. “I’m sorry we ruined your chances with her. We will do better in the future.”

Percival’s shoulders fell as he processed his father’s heart-felt words. “I… thank you. I will.”

The horns blew for the competitors to come to the field and receive the first bracket matches. They went as a family onto the green, shining and impressive and together.

“Bracket One, Round One,” the organizer shouted from the platform. “Will be Sir Percival versus Sir Lancelot du Lac.”

“Gods DAMN IT,” Percival growled.

“Don’t worry,” Gawain told him. “You’re going to win.” He clapped a gauntleted hand against Lancelot’s armored shoulder, making an unnecessarily loud clanging sound. “Isn’t that right?”

Lancelot’s eye twitched ever so slightly.

\---

The horns blew again to get ready. Lancelot stood in one corner, and Percival in the other, and both sides of the stands confusingly displayed the same green and black colors. Percival saw his friends on both sides, nobody quite sure where to be. It didn’t matter, he supposed, because whatever was going to happen was going to be intolerably humiliating. Either he would win, or his father would throw the match in such a melodramatic way that it would be impossible to ignore.

Gawain sat in the royal box with Arthur and Guinevere and their retinue, unable to publicly display support for either side. At least he wouldn’t be able to shout and carry on like the day before.

The contestants dutifully signaled ready to the organizer, met in the middle of the field, and shook hands with their visors up.

“Do your best,” Lancelot told him. “You’ve kicked my ass plenty during practice.”

“Those swords weren’t sharp,” Percival told him, nerves obvious on his youthful features.

“These aren’t that sharp,” he reasoned.

The horns blew again. They dropped their visors, and suddenly Lancelot was just another two-meter tall, well-armed-and-armored bringer of hurt.

But so was Percival, and he was faster. “Speed kills,” Gawain’s voice from past lessons whispered in his mind. “They can hit you if you’re not where they expect you to be.” 

They circled each other; Percival noticed how willingly Lancelot put the sun on his face, though it would look from the outside like Percival drove him there. He lunged menacingly, but over-extended himself. Percival was able to dance out of the way and made an attack on the opening left on his sword side-- but Lancelot being a slippery bastard let his sword spin underhanded and blocked the blow, then twirled it back to ready.

“YES, THAT’S MY MOVE,” the king shouted from the royal box.

“For fuck’s sake,” Percival grumbled, and missed two steps as Lancelot pushed into his circle of reach and made an attack on the blade, pushing it off his center and across his body. He danced back and pivoted ninety degrees so he was behind the blade again and the triangle of combat opened up.

“Really nice,” Lancelot encouraged. “Your footwork is impeccable.” He dropped the tip of his blade and came in for an attack to three, but Percival was able to catch it in a parry and push him off to the side. Lancelot did a little twirl of his own, but the armor prevented most of his showy moves. Percival pressed the advantage hard and rained blows from the forte onto his armor, ringing it like a bell. “Yes, yes my boy!” Lancelot encouraged. 

“You’re not supposed to be supportive when we’re opponents,” Percival panted, already sweating under the layers and activity.

“Oh sorry,” Lancelot apologized. “Grr. Argh. Thou fiend. Have at thee.”

Percival managed to bind his father’s blade with the cross hilt of his own and sank his weight, heaved him backwards.

Lancelot, being two meters tall and having a center of balance roughly on the moon, flew backwards like a dancer but, due to the restrictions of the armor, landed like a sack full of empty cans. He hesitated on the ground long enough for Percival to plant his foot on his sword arm and point his blade at his neck.

Percival looked to the adjudicator for the point. The adjudicator fumbled for a minute, trying to figure out which of the opponent’s identical flags to point to, then gave up and simply bellowed, “The round goes to Sir Percival!”

There was some confused clapping from the stands, backed by Arthur and Gawain’s voices shouting approval.

He offered his father a hand up, and it was accepted. Lancelot clapped him on the back. “I didn’t even have to throw that round.”

“The hell you didn’t,” Percival groused.

“I’m just not educated enough to be a match for you,” he snarked

“That’s never going away, is it?”

\---

Galehalt wiped the floor with Agravaine in the next round, to the point that Agravaine yielded in favor of not throwing up inside his armor. It wasn’t the most impressive match ever, and a little sad to watch. Gawain and Bedivere were considerably more fun, with Gawain allowing Bedivere to feel he was doing well for a few minutes before really opening the flood gates and beating him quite thoroughly. Gareth and Gaheris met and fought, and there was something personal in the way they beat the shit out of each other with abandon. Percival noticed it when his fathers awkwardly found a reason to not be in the stands on one side or the other during the fight, and made it a point to ask why later.

They retired and shed their armor, cooled down in the pub over lunch and considered what the next bracket would be. “We have a half-and-half chance of being paired against each other in the afternoon,” Gawain told him, “but if they arrange it by duration of last match, you’ll likely get paired with Galehalt. Yours were the shortest rounds.”

“So that’s you versus Gaheris,” Percival put his head into the strategy. “He’s fast, but he’s not very smart.”

“And he’s angry today,” Lancelot noted. “He will do something stupid.”

“I think we will see each other in the final match,” Gawain agreed. “And you will have this event on your banner in future years.”

Percival frowned. “Wait, no. You can’t just give me the win, that wouldn’t be fair.”

His papa pretended to be distracted by his lunch.

He scowled more deeply and pushed his arm. “Seriously, people are going to notice if I win against the Green Knight.”

Gawain tsked at him, annoyed. “People are going to notice if I beat my son.”

“Why would that be unusual? Gaheris just practically beat his brother to death in front of the entire court. It’s the point of the games.”

“No. It. Is. Not. Don’t let their beastliness unteach you the manners we have worked so hard on together,” he brandished his pointing finger at his son. “Eat your potatoes. You need the energy.”

“Just win,” Percival told him. “I’ll win in jousting tomorrow. I’m practically no target at tall.”

Gawain dropped his knife and turned to his son, face full of anxiety. “I don’t want you jousting.”

“Papa, it’s just a game, and you can’t stop me--”

“NO.” He raised his voice in a way Percival hadn’t heard since the war. The entire pub went silent. Patrons began to shift slowly towards the door. “You are my son and you will listen to me this one time.” He stared at him and years seemed to fall away from them both. He’d seen that expression on Gawain’s face only once before. “Please. Please be safe. Please.”

He hesitated, and he smelled blood and pain in his memory. The room grew very small. “Yes, papa.”

Gawain pulled him into a long hug, then sat back and regarded him for a long moment, looking both proud and somehow sad. “Anyway,” he half-smiled and clapped him on the back, trying to shift the mood back to where it had begun. “You’ve got this event in the bag. I’ve eaten far too many potatoes and will be asleep by mid afternoon.”

\--

“Round One: Gaheris versus Galehalt.”

“Tsk. Shit,” Gawain hissed.

“Round Two: Gawain versus Percival.”

He confronted the organizer. “Why is this? Galehalt and Percival had the shortest round duration, by the rules--”

“I know the rules, Sir,” the organizer backed away and bent his back politely. “These matches come from the King, long may he live.”

Gawain spun on one booted heel and marched over to the stands, climbed over the railing, and marched past rows of shocked spectators til he made it to the king’s box. “What the hell, Arthur?”

Arthur chuckled. “I’m not letting you throw a match for your son. I see what you two were doing.”

“It’s completely according to the rules, down to the letter.”

“But not according to the _spirit_ of the rules, as well you know,” Arthur chided. “Now get down there and show the crowd why you’re a legend.”

Gawain scowled at him and almost pointed at him threateningly, but remembered where he was and who Arthur now was, and gave a warning look instead. “I’m not going to soon forget this.”

“You’ll have to,” Arthur told him. “We have a kingdom to run.”

He growled all the way back down the stands and onto the green, then nodded brusquely to the organizer. “His majesty will have it his way.”

The organizer nodded, but gave the angry knight a wide berth.

Gawain knocked into Gaheris’s shoulder in a friendly way. “Don’t kill my boy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gaheris answered glibly.

\--

Gaheris versus Galehalt was a _sight._ The morning’s anger hadn’t left Gaheris, and his opponent was not yet exhausted from the first round. They clashed and separated and clashed again; the afternoon sun glinted on their armor in a way that made them difficult to watch. 

Gawain and Percival sat together on the bench by the organizer’s platform, watching the fight.

“They’re so fast,” Percival marvelled.

“You’re faster,” his papa told him, not without audible anxiety. “And your footwork is incredible. You’ll be able to out-maneuver either one of them.”

He audibly gulped. “I um… I’m not sure I want to.”

Gawain turned to him, but waited for an explanation.

“I’m not afraid. Not exactly. But I know that I’m not equal to this. They’re almost as fast as I am, and they’re stronger and bigger. And Gaheris is mean. He doesn’t follow any rules for right of way, his reach is almost twice mine, and it’s like he can detect movement outside the range of vision that his helmet allows. There’s something fishy going on with him. This isn’t like his previous fights at all. He’s a brute, and he’s shit with a sword.”

His papa regarded him with pride and a little wonder. “I noticed the same. I made him promise not to kill you. I think him a man of his word.”

Percival lowered his voice. “He is a man, though, and I do not trust him.”

Gawain chuckled. “You can also forfeit at the final round, and still be second.”

“No,” he answered. “If he’s cheating somehow, I want to see him defeated.” He looked to his papa. “Will you… Will you do your best, and let me lose, and get to the bottom of his sudden advantage?”

He smiled and pulled his boy into half a hug. “I will do anything for you, son. I am so proud of you.”

He waited a moment after the hug broke to push his boundaries a little. “Will you… let me joust tomorrow?”

“Not a chance.”


End file.
